It Starts with Insanity
by The Beast from the South-East
Summary: Willow disappeared two weeks after Adams’ defeat. Three months later a new patient is admitted Dr. Theodores’ haven for the mentally impaired. A patient with red hair and a taste for blood.
1. Chapter 1

This story starts about seven and a half months after Adam was defeated. This is based upon a scene from Nancy A Collins' book 'Sunglasses after Dark' but only for setting the scene. Give praise to Nancy and go buy the book it's a very good read and recently re-released as a 10th anniversary addition.  
  
It Starts with Insanity  
  
The shift was quiet for the most part; the lunatics were all so heavily sedated that it could not have been otherwise, all he had to do was sit around and read while they twisted and moaned in their sleep. Only twice had there been any problems during his shift and both he had dealt with easily and efficiently without calling upon a doctor. Not that he considered this place as having 'doctors'; wardens were closer to the truth for all they cared about those under their care. '"Just give them more trancs"' was a phrase that he well knew by now and hated with every fibre of his being. These poor people never stood a chance of getting out of here and even less chance of getting the help that they truly needed. He would have left had he been sure that he could have obtained a place somewhere better, but he knew there was little chance of that now; his only consolation was that the drugs kept the inmates, for that is what they really were, asleep and unknowing of the uncaring world of which they were now part.  
  
Greg shifted in his chair again, it being almost too small to fit his bulky frame, and felt his eyes wander for his paperback over to the clock on the wall for the third time in under twenty minutes, as if by his looking the clocks' digital display would halt and the hour for 'the rounds' would therefore not come. The black display showed 12:58 picked out in red lines; he sighed though he knew what he had to do was inevitable, as it had been ever since he had become the standing night nurse at 'Dr. Theodores' Haven for the Psychologically Impaired', a cute way of saying nut house and every one knew it. Lifting his six foot five body upright he carefully placed the detective story he had been engrossed in upon his desk, making sure he noted the page first, and reached into his pocket for his key.  
  
Standing before the pale, pastel green door Greg shifted uneasily and ran a hand over his forehead noticing the slight dampness of sweat that had begun to appear, the key in his other hand seemed too heavy to lift. The door was like so many others in the institute that you could pass by it and not notice that it even existed if it were not for the small metal box that sat on the wall next to it. The box with the keyhole. The keyhole that Greg was currently staring at as if it were a bottomless void. The rounds through the 'Violent and Criminally Insane ward', or 'Sickos Alley' as many of the other staff nurses called it, had never made him this nervous before. Before it had been a chore; a chore that he had done with little emotion, his own caring nature that had first gotten him involved with nursing, held back by his disgust at the crimes some of these patients had committed before arriving at the haven for treatment. But it had not been bad, no, not bad at all. Then she had arrived.  
  
It had been the end of his shift when she had been brought in. He had just come out of the changing room, where he had changed out of his nursing whites, when the screams and growls had erupted from the side entrance, thinking that some patient had become violent and was trying to get out. He had set off running towards the disturbance, quickly joined by Phil who had taken over from him barely five minutes before. As they had crashed through the last set of doors into the entranceway, they both stopped stunned by what they saw. It was a young girl being held off the floor by four male orderlies that were struggling to keep her from getting free. She was dressed in a straight jacket, over the hospital pyjamas, and there were chains wrapped around her torso and ankles turning her into a writhing worm in her captures arms. Greg was sure that he could hear the metal links creaking as if they were about to break even above the loud screams and feral noises that issued from the girls throat. Standing, mouths open, Greg and Phil watched as the chain round her legs suddenly broke with a shrill shriek of protest just as Dr Theodore appeared from behind the struggling group and slammed a hypodermic into her thigh. The girl cried out once more, this time in pain, but moments later went limp against the orderlies' arms as the powerful tranquilliser went into effect and she fell asleep.  
  
He had seen her next on his rounds through the VCI ward. She had been placed in the furthest room from the entrance, and the name on the door had simply read Jane Doe; either no one knew who she was or some one was paying the good Dr Theodore to hide it from everyone else, Greg was not so blind as to not know that this sort of thing went on from time to time. His second sight of her, through the sliding view port set in the solid steel door that was the only entrance and exit to the padded cell, allowed him to see her clearly for the first time. She crouched in the centre of the cell, spotlighted by a shaft of moonlight that poured in from a small window eighteen feet up on one wall. The straightjacket and pajama- bottoms were both clinical white hiding her small body in their folds, and in so doing drawing attention to her face and its surround of unkempt, red hair that hung limply about her shoulders. Greg was almost shocked at how pale she was; her skin seemed to glow under the moons illumination making the whites in which she was dressed seem grey. Her eyes were fixed on the view that the small window allowed with more clarity and intensity than he had seen before in anyone let alone a patient. The stillness of the tableau ended as she turned her head towards the door, where he stood in fascinated observation, throwing her face into shadow. Greg had been caught then, the alabaster face that had held his eyes with its ethereal beauty had become covered by shadow and appeared to turn into a skull. Her eyes were hidden in the blackness shadows yet he knew that she was staring at him. Though he couldn't see them, he knew they were fixed upon his own and the ability to move had suddenly become a long forgotten memory. It was only when she turned away, returning her gaze to the window that he had been able to look away and slide the cover back over the hole.  
  
After that he had always been wary, only glancing in before quickly looking away. Greg had had no idea where the fear came from; she had broken a chain, yes, but had done nothing threatening towards him at all. He had heard from his fellow nurses that she was always heavily sedated before she was approached by anybody yet he had not heard of any violence on her part.  
  
His unknown fears had become reality a few weeks later. He had gone down to the bar near the institute where most of the nurses went after their shifts to put the day behind them and had seen Mark Roberts already there. Mark was a large man like most of the male staff (It rarely occurred to the public that having the build of a rugby player would have advantages in the field of mental health. "You try and restrain a violent lunatic." was the answer that was given whenever this rarely asked question came up) and he did his shift directly before Gregs' own. Greg had shouldered his way through and had asked how come he was there when his shift didn't end for another ten minutes,  
  
"I changed my shift with Tomlinson," Came the easy reply, "its the wifes' birthday took her out for dinner and dropped her round her mothers. Just popped in for a quick one before I go back and get her."  
  
Greg hadn't heard the last part, he had stopped hearing after Mark had said Tomlinson. An ice-cold hand had grabbed his spine; Craig Tomlinson had a reputation for being overly friendly with the female patients, thought nothing had ever been proven. When the girl in C ward had turned up pregnant, the girl who had been catatonic for eighteen months after her boyfriend had driven head first into a wall with her in the passenger seat, they had known. But there was no proof and it had been swept under the carpet to avoid 'complications'.  
  
He had run all the way to the clinic, crashed through the doors and torn up the stairs in too much of a rush to wait for the lift. When he had reached the door to the VCI and found it open his rapidly beating heart had crept up his throat. Opening the door further he stepped in and walked along the frighteningly silent corridor with ice cold sweat forming on his body. Her door was ajar. One shaky hand reached out of it's own accord and gripped the metal handle in a death grip as it slowly pulled open the door to reveal the scene within.  
  
Craig was indeed in there, or rather the thing that had once been Craig. Tomlinson would be no longer be a threat to any female patient, or any one at all. His body lay across her lap his trousers and boxers around his ankles, arms out stretched and his face hidden by her hair as her head rested in the crook of his neck. The creak of the opening door caused her to raise her face to him revealing the torn ruin that was all that was left of Tomlinson's neck and her blood- covered face. As Greg stood transfixed with horror he saw her tongue emerge from her mouth and lick at her too red lips before she again buried her teeth in her victims neck.  
  
The next part was still a bit of a blur to him but he found his forearm pressed against her throat trapping her against the far wall the body of Tomlinson lying in the centre of the floor. Her blood stained face twisted in rage as she growled and spat at him, her feet trying to gain the floor as he held her small frame face to face with his far larger one. He had no idea how long he could have held her there with her strength but the next instant several security guards appeared with Dr. Theodore and she was soon subdued and unconscious as a cocktail of drugs was pumped into her.  
  
Greg had been congratulated for his quick thinking and the recapturing of Jane Doe. Dr. Theodore had given him a surprisingly large rise in pay and told him that he had a job for life at his clinic but Greg was no fool and had heard the unspoken words, 'as long as you never say anything about what actually happened here tonight.' He had shut up, not because of the money or the threat of unemployment, but rather because he had no idea what had happened. It was too weird, too disturbing and he hadn't been able to find the words to describe the way she had torn at Craigs' throat and licked at the blood that had welled up from the tears; an odd combination of wild animal and a cat with a saucer of cream. Yet every night he would do his rounds look in and find her as he had that first time staring out at the moon, an object of desire and beauty, before she turned to face him and became death incarnate. Tonight would be no different; not that that thought gave any comfort. 


	2. Chapter 2

The movement of her hands caused the long untouched nails to scrape against the strong material that bound her arms against her body, the slow fabric noise setting her teeth on edge. The thick fibres of the straightjacket rubbed against the sore reddened skin beneath as she shifted towards the shaft of moonlight, her single constant connection to the outside world, her only light in the darkness of her prison. Still crouched she moved forward entering the beam allowing it to illuminate her, almost feeling it playing across her skin and through her tangled mane hair, running in torrents over the stained landscape of her bindings. The connection to life, to freedom, was almost tangible and before now it had been so far away, so impossible to reach for, it was non-existent. The grip of the drugs after the injuries to her body and mind had made it so hard to think that she had not even tried. The wounds to the body had healed quickly but the damage to her brain had been the problem, without blood it could not, and had not healed. The one medicine that she required, not even thought about being given to her.  
  
Her fingernails scraped harder against the stained fabric as a hazy memory of a man leering at her as he undid his flies and pulled down his pants came to her, his face, a mask of terror, as she took him to the floor. Holding him in the coil of her body as her teeth tore through his throat, his arms desperately trying to push her away causing her to bite deeper, the erotic taste of blood on her tongue and its warmth flowing down her throat; orgasmic. Her body shuddered with pleasure as her face twisted in revulsion at the memory of the much needed elixir of life filling her; the elixir of healing. Thought had started to become easier after that, the drugs that they daily forced into her system less effective at keeping her under; she was returning to herself, keeping the animalistic urge to simply hunt, kill and feed within and controlled.  
  
It had taken time but she was now fully herself again, though she kept that secret, escape not release was the answer problems like this. Nails scratched harder, cloth started to give way beneath them. Arms stretched, joints cracking with sounds like gunshots in the silence, and the re-enforced seams began to give way. With a sharp bestial cry of effort, she straightened tearing the straightjacket apart and stood, arms spread wide, under the moons glow.  
  
Greg opened the slot and looked in on the sleeping figure of Justin Joyce, an extreme paranoid schizophrenic, who had first tortured his parents to death then eaten them before calmly walking through his apartment block gutting anyone who he came across, leaving them to die in agony. Though he had no memory of the entire event he relived it every night in his dreams. Greg watched as he thrashed about in the restraints, his face twisting from delight to terror while giggles and laughs escaped his lips; he would never leave the haven.  
  
In fact Greg thought, as he closed the slot, the only ones who would have any chance to get free of this wing were those who died, most likely of old age or some terminal disease. Even then the last thing they saw would be the padded ceiling of their cell; shaking his head at the worlds' self-denial he signed the list and reached for the sliding panel on the next door. As his fingers tightened around the knob ready to pull it back the scream rang out.  
  
It started quietly in the silent corridor, a movement of air felt more than it was heard, like the feeling you got before a storm. The throat that made it could not have been human. Half scream and half lions roar it warped and echoed along the narrow hallway, a creature in its own right. Later he would think it was his training, or shock, or some unknown force that had made him run towards the cry rather than away from it, he was sure that the rational part of his mind had no say in his action.  
  
He dashed down the final fifteen meters to the door, skidding to a halt before it and reaching up with one trembling hand to open the slot. His fingers, clammy with a sudden sweat, gripped the knob so tightly that they turned white. Taking one deep breath he commanded his arm to move, it refused. Taking another deep breath he tried again; the metal slammed back revealing the void, he fixed his eyes to it and thrust his head forward.  
  
She stood in the silver light, a being of ethereal beauty, the straightjacket that should hold people in such a way that they could never place enough force on it to tear the double re- enforced seams even if they had had strength to do that, lying round her feet and hanging in its sections from her neck and out flung arms. Transfixed he watched as she lowered her arms, letting the tattered remains fall to the floor, before raising one hand, gripping and ripping the collar like fragment that hung round her throat free. She glanced at it for a moment before throwing it disdainfully away from her into the darkness. Greg found that he could not move, his own body in deference to his wishes refusing to look away, so he stood and stared, taking in every detail of this girl of his dreams, stalker through nightmares. Her legs encased in the hospital pajamas were longer than he thought they would be, never before seeing her standing. Her top, he knew, was the same as the pajama bottoms but had yellowed and creased, most of the ties were frayed and broken, it looked as though it had not be changed since the moment it had been put on. Its lack of ties showed him the pale skin of her stomach and sternum, her sides sore and red where her arms had been rubbing as they were locked in the restraints; the curve of her breasts above, though mostly hidden by the hanging top, would show similar if not so vivid markings, he was sure. The answer for this was simple and even in his shocked state seemed totally inhumane - the straightjacket had never been removed since the day it had been placed on her.  
  
He would never be sure as to whether or not he had gasped or she had seen him out of the corner of her eye but her face turned towards him and he, paralysed by he knew not what emotion, waited for the skulled visage of death to appear on her face. It never came; her face remained as it had in the moonlight, a thing of beauty. This did nothing to alleviate his fear at her gaze till she, child like, cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. Whether the innocent look, the smile or harmless stance she stood in, he found he was no longer afraid or panicked by her presence; in that moment he was at peace, calm and collected. Then the moment was gone, pulled away, as she returned her gaze back to the high window.  
  
He watched as he posture shifted, legs bracing, arms pulling back, stomach muscles tightening while her fingers spread wide curled and ready. Though he could not see her face behind the tangled curtain of hair, the low savage snarl that rose in her chest warned him of her immanent action; as she launched her self forward he was already moving his eyes to follow her. Even when she leapt upward towards the wall, her hands reached out for a grip on the foam padding that covered it, her actual intent never registered in his shocked state. It was only when the long jagged nails ripped into the fabric that her action began to become clearer though it was still only a murky realization in the back of his mind.  
  
With one hand imbedded her legs scrabbled for a second as they attempted to gain a similar hold before the jagged toenails tore in and caught, holding her aloft. Arms and legs spread wide she threw her free hand upwards, another tearing of fabric and she began to climb lizard like up the wall towards the glowing moonlit window.  
  
He watched her, every movement registering, every twitch of her fingers, and every swing of her hips.  
  
The open top swung out from side to side in opposition to the rocking motions of her climb. It flapped as if it had a life of it's own; as if it to longed for freedom from this place of confinement and insanity. Where it hung from her shoulders, sleeves bunching high on her arms as she stretched upwards towards the light, it became a pair of wings. A flapping thing of white mottled with yellows and faded, flaking brown. Its fluttering motion called out to his memory, reminding him of the doves he used to feed as a child in the park, their feathers flying as they took to the air as he tried to catch one and the day he saw the cat leap and tear one from the air and rip it apart.  
  
The sharp skritching sound of nails scraping across brick recalled him from the nightmare image of his childhood to the scene of the present. She had reached the tiny aperture, a trail of ripped fabric bleeding shredded foam left behind her. Her toes were curled over the tiny ledge of the sill whilst her fingers gripped the rough edge of the brickwork. The glass being set directly into the wall meant that these were the only holds available the padded lining being too weak to support even her slight frame at rest. Thus the tableau remained for a moment; her hanging by the slightest holds, muscles tense though her body was hanging loosely relaxed; him, body damp with a cold sweat, fingers pressed around the tiny handle that open the viewing slot so hard they had turned white, his head thrust forward, eyes wide and staring.  
  
She moved suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise at her action, relieving the tight tension that had gathered in him. She swung out, hair flying across her face as she turned, her previously flapping top pressing close to her body before both it and her long hair swung out and away as she stopped, facing the door, one arm hanging limply. Using only her legs and one arm to grip the sill she hung there swinging gently. After the fast movements of before it was eerily slow and disturbed Greg more than the savage gripping and tearing actions of her climb. Her open hospital top was draped across her back; hung from her shoulders touching the tangled mane that spilled in a mixture of long strands and tight messy curls from her head as it moved; leaving her front exposed to her frozen, one man audience. Her breasts, small white curves of flesh that tantalised and teased his senses to arousal that would not come as his gaze took in the red marks and abrasions revealed fully to his sight for the first time. Her skin, paler under the direct light of the moon from the window made the sore areas of skin stand out, looking larger and fiercer then before; her sides and abdomen carrying the line across her like a belt of red. The undersides of her breasts also carried an area of worried skin on the outside where her wrists would have been held tight against her for however long the straight jacket had held her captive inside its embrace.  
  
His eyes travelled upwards over the slight line that marred her collarbone and throat and over her face.  
  
Her lips were slightly parted and he shivered with some unknown feeling as her tongue came out to wet them as he had seen it do when she cleaned Tomlinsons' blood from them; slow and deliberate, a thing to be seen rather than a thing of necessity. His eyes moved to meet her own fixed upon his the only thing the door allowed her to see of him. He realized suddenly that this was the first time he had truly seen her eyes un-obscured by shadow or the glint of madness; green eyes, slightly amused but containing a deep seriousness all the same. He was transfixed by her stare, unable to look away from it as she looked deep into his own hazel ones. 


End file.
